


radioactive.

by jtjenna (pornographicpenguin)



Category: D.Gray-man
Genre: M/M, because my attitude going into this was 'fuck canon i'm writing this shit', coughs, don't expect great tyki characterization he's pretty much a plot device with a top hat, only kind of canon compliant, supershort chapters bc each chapter is only a scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-02
Updated: 2013-12-10
Packaged: 2017-12-31 07:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 13
Words: 10,413
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1028925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pornographicpenguin/pseuds/jtjenna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Lavi enters a deeply unhealthy relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. sc. i

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: while there is no actual non-consensual *sex* in this, there are non-consensual violence-type scenes that could definitely be triggering in the noncon sense, jsyk
> 
> thanks to tumblr user sinistersigma for being my sounding board throughout this entire mess of a fic
> 
> lyrics are from "radioactive" by marina and the diamonds and imagine dragons
> 
> super-pretentious playlist at 8tracks (because why the fuck not) --> http://8tracks.com/jtjenna/radioactive
> 
> also concrit is absolutely welcome

_I'm waking up to ash and dust_  


Lavi jerks awake.

He had fallen asleep, sprawled out haphazardly over the bed, his legs thrown over one side. He can barely remember falling asleep -- but, no, the memories are still there. He had just returned from a mission (possible Innocence in Sweden). He had barely spent the time to give Komui his report (nothing, absolutely nothing) before hobbling like a zombie over to his room and promptly passing out under the exhaustion of days worth of travel.

But now he's awake -- wide awake. Sweaty, fully-clothed, disoriented. Awake. Painfully so.

And he can remember what he was dreaming about.

He falls back onto the bed, onto the rumpled sheets, still tucked around the mattress; his head falls just short of the single pillow. Sweat is cached under the fabric of his headband, dripping down through his hair and over his scalp. A particularly tenacious drop slides down his neck from behind his ear.

He can remember what he was dreaming about.

Of course he does, he remembers all of his dreams. He remembers everything. It's kind of his job.

He thinks he would rather not remember this one, though.

He had been sitting at a table when Lavi walked in through the door. It was the only object within the room, which was dark and grand, expanded vastly up and out on either side of him. Lavi's hair flopped down limply into his line of vision; his headband was missing. So was his hammer, and, given the feel of his clothes around him, he wasn't wearing his uniform, either.

He, on the other hand, was fully dressed, tophat and all, smirking at Lavi from across the room. Lavi finds it immediately infuriating -- all holier-than-thou (which is really rich, coming from the literal Number One enemy of the Church) and secreting superiority like oozed out from his very bones.

The man's mouth moved, but Lavi heard nothing. He could hear wind rattling against the barred windows, his own palpitating heart, even his breath sounded overwhelming. But Lavi heard him say nothing.

It was as Lavi was attempting to read his lips that he found himself taking one step forward, then another, and he -- the Noah, in full gray ensemble -- grinned triumphantly. Lavi gritted his teeth, his pulse jumped in his throat, and he continued walking forward.

The double doors creaked closed behind Lavi. He couldn't turn his head to see them, but he could hear them, at least twice as tall as him, grand and vast and palatial like the rest of the room, like everything he's come to associate with the Noahs. He sat down at the chair at the foot of the table, pulled it out delicately and plopped himself down with his hands in his lap.

The man removed his hat, tipped it at him in greeting. His mouth moved again, forming syllables entirely foreign to Lavi except for what he thought was the ever-recognizable “exorcist”. Lavi says nothing in return, by choice. Lavi glares, his lips draw into a thin line, suffused with an irrevocable certainty that his current predicament was the man's fault.

Lavi sat there, paralyzed, three seats down from where he stood –- and Lavi couldn't move, couldn't move, was completely frozen, could almost feel his entire body's temperature dropping. And the man just talked, placed his hat on the table off to the side, revealing his hair, slicked back away from the crosses on his forehead. They looked like they were carved, etched with a too-steady hand into his head like an epigraph. Lavi could imagine, almost see, blood dripping from the gashes, feel it dripping down his own forehead and into his eyes.

It was probably just the sweat, as he slept.

He stood, while Lavi was still glued to his seat, hands clasped laxly in his lap, ankles crossed beneath the chair. The man walked gloved hands over the edge of the table, dragging cloth along so it gathered and passed around his fingers like water. He approached Lavi, who could feel his pulse flutter in his neck and chest and pound worryingly in his fingertips. And he struggled to get away, jerked and pulled at his limbs and body and _wanted to get away_ , to defend himself, _needed_ to defend himself. But he couldn't move.

He knew he was dreaming. At the very least, he was fairly certain, logically, but he couldn't help the panic that rose and caught in his throat when the man, the Noah, stepped close to him, shoes clacking against the hardwood floor, the deep purples, rich blacks, and yellow-oranges of the few lights the background to his body, looming over Lavi as the centerpiece of a macabre watercolor. And Lavi was afraid.

And as Lavi tried to move once more, he felt an anger flare up in him, irrational and beyond his normal emotional control. He tried jerked against his bonds, but couldn't even do that much, couldn't move an inch and couldn't feel anything holding him. He was simply immobile.

The man stared down at Lavi, whose eyes refused to err from the crosses in his forehead, which were even more gruesome up close: they were holes. They were neat, clean, carved with care, it looked like, but they were holes. Not merely tattoos, or brands, but – holes. Holes in his head.

And the man bent over him, lips moving, moving too fast for Lavi to catch what he was saying, not that he was really trying. Lavi was trying to move again, but all he could do was stare, as the Noah leaned in farther and farther, grinning too widely, manically, his teeth disturbingly sharp, his eyes wide and sickening to look at. A human face could contort like that, Lavi was certain.

The dream was veering quickly into nightmare territory.

And it was just when a single gloved hand comes up to brush against his chest, over his heart, pounding pounding **pounding** in his chest, it was when he could barely breathe, when his lungs spasmed in his chest, when he was about to scream in panic, that he wakes.

And that brings him to waking up, alone, disoriented, in his room.


	2. sc. ii

_I'm breathing in the chemicals_

It's months later, the next time Lavi sees him, directly after a brawl in the streets: Lavi had gotten separated from his comrades – Bookman and Kanda, this time, searching out Innocence in France. They had been attacked – still had no idea if there was actually Innocence here, but the presence of so many akuma attested to the chance.

Lavi's limping along the streets, attempting to use his hammer as a crutch and failing miserably. There's a cut along the inside of his forearm, a long scrape that won't stop bleeding despite the makeshift bandage he's got wrapped around it, and he thinks he might have fractured his fibula – which is great, just great, because something like that will take a while to heal and he won't even be able to walk on it.

So, thinking of his injury situation, he's rather pissed as he walks around trying to locate Bookman and Kanda, and becoming more and more so when they refuse to show up anywhere. He absolutely refuses to be worried for them. They're fine, obviously; contemplating unfortunate fates for them isn't going to help him, or them, in any way. (He can't help the twinges in the back of his head though, that pulse in unison with the blood dripping from his arm and onto the stone streets, _what if they're dead?_ ) He's not worried.

And it's just as he's walking past a doorway, nudged into the brickwork of a house almost imperceptibly, clinging to the wall in dark clothes and skin, that hands jump out and grab him. A scream flings itself from his lungs, but is muffled by the hand pressed over his mouth hard enough to bruise, dragging him towards that hidden door. A single hand of his jerks up and scrabbles at those holding him, trying to pry the stranger's hand away. Lavi has just a moment to recognize that the hand is covered in cloth – fucking pristine white cloth – before he's being pulled, inexorably, through the doorway.

He's pressed up against the door, wrists pinned on either side of his head in a grip that seems prepared to break them rather than let him go. Lavi can't bring himself to care, though, in the face of the rage that socks him in the stomach at the sight of him.

“Bastard,” is what scrapes out of his vocal chords, crawls up from deep inside him like a monster, and he's got a thousand, a million more, roiting inside of him, impatient for their turn to be voiced.

“It's nice to see you again, exorcist.”

It's not, not in the slightest, because Lavi could kill him – wants to kill him. He'd be perfectly satisfied with that, actually: it would make a beautiful ending to the shit day he's had.

But he's not going to get to kill him. His hammer has already dropped to the floor, he can barely move one of his legs, and the Noah is so much stronger than him. It's not going to happen.

He's probably going to die here.

Lavi spits in his face.

It's not the most graceful, or the most dignified, or the most respectable thing he's ever done, but it's not as if he's well-known for those particular things anyway.

The Noah twitches. Lavi decides that was definitely the most satisfying thing he's done all day.

“Did you just --”

Lavi smirks. It's a purposeful imitation of the way he saw the Noah smirk at him in his dream (he still remembers it, clear as day, disturbing as fuck), and how Lavi saw him smirk during the battle in Edo. The same smirk that pissed him off so much. Lavi only hopes he can return the favor.

His wrists are shoved even farther back – into what, he has no clue – as the Noah pulls away to wipe at his face and glare at him. Lavi immediately moves to bring his hands down but finds them – he glances up – in the fucking wood of the door. It's jarring. As he tugs at them, he can feel wood scraping at the tender skin of his wrists, blood dripping from his arm under the loosened bandage. His hammer is still by his feet, and as the Noah turns away to wipe the saliva from his face, he goes for it with his foot – but it's the broken leg, and it hurts like a bitch, and he's not nearly fast enough. The Noah snatches it up before he can get anywhere close.

“Not so fast, exorcist.” Lavi glares, tries to remember to breathe as the Noah juggles his Innocence in his palms, smirking at him. Bastard. But to Lavi's immense relief, he simply slips it into his pocket. Intact.

Lavi can't even begin to fathom why he would do something like that – and not destroy it on the spot. Bastard had the chance – the perfect chance.

But before Lavi can really contemplate that issue further, the man is up in his face, gripping his chin so he can't look away, and hissing, “You're rather obnoxious, you know that?”

Lavi chuckles. “Thanks.” He's calm, at least trying to be, hoping that he can get the Noah riled up enough to make a mistake. Given the look he's giving Lavi – that sharp-toothed smile, eyes wide and practically bulging out of his head – getting him angry isn't going to be a problem.

“Not a compliment.” The Noah jerks Lavi's head forward and back again, slamming it into the door hard enough to make Lavi see stars. After he blinks his eyes a few times, he focuses on the Noah with a grin.

Only to find that he's reverted to an absolutely unruffled state. “Tyki Mikk,” he says, completely calm.  The change is jarring.

“What?”

He leans against the stairway opposite the entrance. “My name.” Lavi says nothing. “Any chance you'd tell me yours?” Lavi glares. “Thought so.”

“If you're going to kill me, get on with it.” It's not like Kanda and Bookman are going to find him here, inside a random house within the large radius of their fight.

The Noah – Tyki, Lavi supposes, though he could spit at the idea of calling a monster by a name. Like Lavi knows him. Like there's really something there to get to know – smiles. “Oh, come on now, exorcist, I'm just trying to be friendly.” He crosses one leg over the other and pulls out a cigarette, sticks it in his mouth, lights it up.

Yeah. Friendly. Killing people sure is friendly, Lavi thinks.

“You know I could just --” he takes a step forward, hand outstretched, and plucks a single button from Lavi's coat, “do this.” Lavi scowls, but there's nothing he can do. He's floundering and helpless and at the mercy of a monster.

Said monster flips the button around in his hand. “Usually I only take these after I've killed someone,” he says. “But you're pretty enough that I'll make an exception.” Lavi gapes. Did he just – did he just call him – ? “Lavi?” Tyki's eyebrows raise. “No last name.” He smirks (yet again, Lavi is getting so sick of that expression, Lavi is getting sick of thinking that _word_ ). “Feeling a little lost, are we?”

“Not at all,” Lavi responds.

Tyki chuckles around the cigarette in his mouth. Smoke is beginning to fill up the small alcove, and Lavi has no choice but to breathe it in.  He finds himself trying very hard not to cough. Blood is still dripping down his arm. He's lightheaded, like his breathing isn't quite enough to keep him going. “If you want to kill me you should do it soon,” he says, and he puts the stupid, stupid words coming out of his mouth up to the blood loss, “because I'm probably going to bleed out soon if you don't.”

Tyki blinks. “Huh?”

“My arm,” Lavi says. A vertical slit, fairly deep into the arm. He knows he could bleed out from it, depending on if it hit an artery or not. He feels lightheaded enough to.

“Hmm,” Tyki says. “Better hurry this up, then.” He pushes off of the wall, bounces over the few steps over to Lavi. He fully expects to have one of his organs plucked out of his torso, or maybe for him to just pull a knife out of his jacket and slit Lavi's throat, or simply knock him out and leave him to bleed to death. He clenches his eyes and his muscles involuntarily, braces for the expected impact, not that, logically, closing his eyes is going to help.

But none of that happens.

Instead, Lavi cracks his eyes open to find Tyki standing there, staring at him. Up close and personal, not angrily, or menacingly, just. Looking.

And that pisses Lavi the fuck off.

“Just fucking kill me already, would you!?” he shouts, maybe even screeches, because he's given up. He gave up at the beginning of this, when he decided that he wasn't going to come out of this encounter alive; he's given up because he's alone and hopeless and this is where he ends, why does the Noah keep prolonging his time? Is this what he did to Allen?: made him wait, chatted with him, acted all friendly before he fucking destroyed his arm? “Just do it, you fucking _monster!_ ”

Tyki grabs him by the jaw and slams him back into the doorway – again, and Lavi's heart is pounding fast, faster than it feels like it ever has, and he can barely see straight, feels like he's going to pass out, but Tyki slams him against the doorway and hisses, “I should kill you just for that comment,” and Lavi mutters back something about how he can go fuck himself, and Lavi really really truly does expect to die but he –

He doesn't.

He has no idea what's happening instead of him dying for a long moment; he's disoriented and confused and his eyes are still plastered open, drying out as he stares at the Noah. But he can't – and he's surprised and angry and his head is spinning, but the Noah – the monster – is kissing him.

He tries to pull away, to do something, but of course he can't – he's pressed hard against the door, and Tyki is pressed hard against him, kissing him, and he can't even begin to – fathom, why – but Tyki does it for him, pulls away, smiles at him, and Lavi opens his mouth to say something, but Tyki grabs him by the hair and, for the third time, slams his head back into the door, and he passes out.


	3. sc. iii

_.My heart is nuclear_

 

He wakes up in the street, Kanda hovering over him. It's raining; water rushes past his body, down the street where he can see his own blood mingle with the runoff. He feels so – he feels like he should be dead.

“Hey, Yuu,” he says, and Kanda scowls at him. His hair is wet, clings to his face. Lavi doesn't think it was raining before he passed out.

“Don't call me that,” Kanda says. He looks off to the side, left to right, searching for something. Someone. Maybe Bookman.

“What...what happened?” Lavi asks. The world is still spinning, and he can't get anything quite straight in his head. He remembers – right, the Noah guy, and – things. He shuts that line of thought like a particularly boring book, as he begins to remember. He can examine those memories later, when there's not a Kanda right there. Decide if they even happened, or if he was just hallucinating. Because of blood loss. Exactly.

“Shut up,” Kanda says.

“No need to be so grumpy, Yuu.”

“I said _shut up,_ or I swear to god I will throttle you, injuries be damned.” He's still not looking at Lavi, he's glancing around this way and that. Searching for something.

Honestly, in any other circumstances, Lavi would probably try to annoy Kanda as much as possible, just to fuck with him, but he thinks he's getting read to just

maybe

pass out again.

*

The dreams become frequent, after that. They're not like the first one, not really. They always take place in the same room (the butterfly room, he thinks of it, because the structure and ambiance remind him awfully of one of his dark purple butterflies), with the same smallish table, the same nightmare-esque feel.

But they're really not the same, not the all.

These new dreams, they're about different – things. Lavi isn't comfortable thinking about what _kind_ of things in the presence of other people, but alone, in his room, in the dark, it's all he can think about – which is weird, sings of obsession.

They're dreams where Tyki kisses him.

And that – that, he hates, because he's started calling the Noah, the monster, by his first name. In his own head, at least, and in his dreams, he'll say it against lips pressed to his, silently into the abyss of his own room as he wakes, but never out loud. Never to others.

Lavi's never had dreams like this before. They're disturbing, to say the least: lacquered with a nightmarish quality, riddled with images that haunt him from dark corners even in his waking hours, they pendulate around his consciousness. He feels like he's being hunted, in his own mind, by images, emotions, feelings he refuses to acknowledge (and for good reason). But above that, above the sheer terror they spark in him, there's the hate.

It's strong – surprisingly so, for someone who's supposed to remain neutral, to watch, to remain uninvolved (like he hasn't broken that creed a thousand times over already). But it rocks him to the core; it's a hate that roots itself, grows up through his very foundations with the fearful tenacity of the natural.

And it feels good. Hating someone so much shouldn't feel so good, and it makes him ashamed and skittish to know that something so dark is lurking inside him. He's never thought of himself as a vengeful person, or a hateful person. But he really, really fucking hates Tyki. He doesn't even know where it comes from – no, that's not true, he understands why, just not why it's so goddamned _strong_. It's the stupid fucking way he dresses and tips his hat, the immaculate whiteness of his gloves.  It's simple images (all Lavi has to do is think of him) and he feels like he's being tugged around by the roots of his hair.  He feels like he's back in that tiny house.

He doesn't know what to do.

There's nothing to distract him. His leg is broken, so he's confined to hobbling around the Order on crutches until he heals. It's pathetic, and he whines about it. Kanda tells him that it's his own fault for getting injured in the first place (like he doesn't get injured enough for the entire Order put together, the hypocrite); Lenalee dawdles around with him and chastises (antagonizes) him for making any attempt to move.  Bookman gives him work he can barely focus on. It's not enough to occupy him when he can't sleep peacefully, when he feels like he's been holding his breath for days and days on end.

It'll take four to six weeks for his leg to heal. No missions, no fun, no nothing. The stress is beginning to get to him. Because behind every corner and in every dream, there's fear and hate waiting for him.

And he doesn't know what to do.


	4. sc. iv

_.I'm turning radioactive_

His first mission after healing is like being set free from a metaphorical cage. He practically skips out of the Order – because he can walk, he can finally walk! He still has twinges in his leg, but that's normal, apparently. And, really, he's not going to protest actually being allowed outside. He misses outside.

(To be fair, he's unbearably sick of inside.)

The next few days become a game of hopping and jumping around as much as possible, of screaming from the mountains about how fucking happy he is to be outside, and completely ignoring the parts of him that are absolutely terrified, absolutely angry and spiteful and hateful. Lenalee giggles at his enthusiasm, says she knows how it feels not to be able to walk. She's happy for him. He thinks he might be for himself.

Because he's got this – feeling. It takes him a few days to identify it, swimming in the pit of his stomach, leaping up into his throat, making him smile at the most inappropriate of times. It's bright and shining, and radiates, sometimes, warms him from the very core. It takes him a few days, but he gets it: anticipation.

And it's sick. He wants to see the Noah again. Lavi wants to feel him press him up against the wall and feel that hate resonate within him, wants to feel it sing and cry and he knows it will feel good. The fear he's been feeling slowly becomes less and less evident, leaks away through his own feet and into the ground. Just disappears, as he accepts that he wants to see Tyki again. He wants to meet the monster, look him in the eyes, and in that be fulfilled.

He has the knowledge to recognize the prelude to obsession as it stalks his mind, but he doesn't care.

 


	5. sc. v

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i swear to god i have all of this finished i'm just lazy

_.Tonight I feel like neon gold_

 

He does, indeed, see Tyki again. It's funny how he never doubted that he would, he just doubted that it would happen – soon.

It did happen soon, though. Four nights after he's left. Lavi would go so far as to say he was eager, showing up so quickly. Not that he's going to complain. Or, no, no – he should be complaining, what's wrong with him, this is so fucked up. So completely beyond fucked up, it's not even in the ballpark, not even in the same league as “fucked up”, and if he wants to adequately describe how wrong this is, he's going to have to come up with a new term. Hopefully more vulgar than the last.

He feels guilty. He really does. Well, “guilty” may not be the most appropriate word. “Ashamed” may fit better. Ashamed and self-loathing, because what the actual fuck is the matter with him?! What the fuck is he doing, waiting for a fucking Noah to show up, and, what, sweep him off his feet like a pretty pretty princess in a fucking fairy tale? Yeah, sure, okay.

He should stop. That means – what, though, what could that possibly mean? Stop what, he hasn't done anything. He's done nothing but dream some things. Think some things. (He, of anyone, should know how dangerous thoughts can be, given his profession.) But as of late he seems incapable of controlling his own thoughts. He became Lavi, and is continuing to become Lavi. He can't stop. He knows what's happening, is staring down from the peak of a mountain, staring down the fall, knowing he's going to tumble down, down, down, knowing how it's going to hurt. Knowing where that fall inevitably ends. Not knowing how to stop it. He has no idea how to stop.

It's stupid, really. He's met the guy, what, twice? Not even met, really, he's fought with him and been kissed by him. He's barely spoken to the guy. And he's becoming obsessed with him. He doesn't have an obsessive personality, so he doesn't understand why....

But that doesn't matter. It's happening, and he doesn't know how to stop it.

It's as he's sitting, alone, in his room, that he decides to just stop thinking about it.

He has a feeling about tonight. He feels like something's going to happen, which is just as stupid and irrational (but maybe not as destructive) as all the other feelings he's been having recently. He feels like the Noah's going to show up.

Lavi hasn't decided what he's going to do if he does. Not kill him. No, Lavi won't kill him. He might try to. He's just so – he wants to kill him, but only sort of. Only because he killed Allen. Sort of. He'll try to kill Tyki if Tyki tries to kill him. Lavi thinks that's fair.

And that sounds like a truce. Like a truce with someone who isn't even there, probably won't even show up, Lavi shouldn't even want him to show up because that significantly increases his chances of being dead! This is stupid, stupid, so unbelievably stupid, and Lavi is so fucked.

Tyki comes in through the side of the building.

Lavi's sitting on the edge of his bed – he has better things to do, like sleep, but he finds himself struck with a sudden (chronic) bout of insomnia.

Lavi's eyes are immediately on him, watching him adjust his cufflinks as he says, “I didn't expect to find you up, eyepatch,” and smiles like he's actually pleased.

And Lavi's so confused he can't do anything but sit there, blankly, with his hands in his lap. He's at war with himself, the hot attraction immediately stoked in him and the black hate swarming in his gut like gnats up against one another in a grueling, paralyzing battle. Lavi breathes.

Tyki steps up to him, his shoes clacking on the floor obscenely loudly in the silent room. He hooks his fingers under Lavi's chin, says, “Exorcist...”

Lavi slaps his hand away, buzzing, hisses, “Don't touch me.” Lavi forgets to be surprised that he can even make contact with him.

Tyki pauses for barely half a second before gripping Lavi's chin between his thumb and forefinger, leans down, snatches Lavi's wrist again with that inhuman strength, and hisses with a violent intensity, “I'll touch you all I want.”

Lavi has a hand free, knotted in the sheets by his thigh, but he doesn't make a move to free himself. He could if he wanted to – not that it would do anything to help him in the long run, but it might make him hate himself a little less, later – but he doesn't. Instead, he stares into Tyki's eyes (black like Hell) and his malicious, malicious grin and stops thinking altogether. Just feels – the pounding of his heart, the knot in his throat, the itching in his muscles to either kill Tyki or fuck him – or both, both, he realizes, god. He feels his eye go wide, pupil dilated, can't stop staring at those sharp teeth that peek out from between his lips.

It's not of his own volition that, “Yeah,” skates breathlessly out of his mouth. It's not a response, not really: he's not responding to what Tyki said. At least, he doesn't think so, but obviously Tyki takes it as such, because he immediately shoves Lavi back onto the mattress with a sharp nudge to his shoulders.

And Lavi's caught up in a windstorm of his own emotions – which he's been out of touch with for so long they hit him with all the force of a freight train – hate and attraction and guilt laced together with the feeling of committing a sin. Tyki presses him into the mattress and Lavi's gasping for breath; it's the first time in ages he can't keep up with what's going on. Everything's a blur of gray and black and bright neon feelings splashed about like paint. It's in that moment, just a split second, where his hate and attraction reconcile, amalgamate into one single emotion with one single drive – he can feel it.

And that in itself is a revelation. It feels almost like a drug: once he starts he doesn't want to stop, doesn't think he can stop, and he knows that this won't end well for him.

And as Tyki kisses him (too violent to be called such, really), he realizes that there's no way he's going to stop.

 


	6. sc. vi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i literally sit around thinking 'how could i make this fic just a bit more douchy'

_.Enough to make my systems blow_

 

It's remarkably easy for him to slip into a pattern, after that. They come to an arrangement. They meet whenever Lavi's out on missions. Tyki somehow manages to find him (Lavi doesn't ask how, Tyki doesn't tell him), and he never interferes with whatever they're investigating. At least, Lavi never sees him. Tyki's there one night, gone the next – every third night. The third night, wherever Lavi happens to be.

Noticing the pattern, Lavi always attempts to get rooms to himself, for the very least on that one night. The third night.

But one night, he doesn't manage to, and Tyki drags him out into the street, into the alleyway by in inn, shoves him up against the wall by the shoulders, grips him tightly around the neck. And Lavi is beginning to see stars – and he can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe, it's all he thinks as he claws at the fingers gripping his throat, kicks at the body holding him down (every blow lands), fumbles for his hammer strapped to his leg only to find it's conspicuously absent. Because he forgot it in the room in the rush to get out unnoticed, he couldn't believe how stupid he was – because now he's going to die, he thinks as his vision fades out, limbs sag and fall asleep, he's going to die, die, die....

Tyki leans down, whispers in his ear, closely enough Lavi can feel the moistness of his breath and slicked hair brushing his temple, “You know I could kill you, Lavi.” And Lavi knows, god does Lavi know, because he can't breathe, can't breathe, can't breathe....

And suddenly he can again, takes in one gulping gasping wretched breath, before Tyki's hand slams back down on his neck once more – Lavi's going to have deep, dark bruises there tomorrow, he'll have to wear his scarf, but maybe when he's not he'll look in the mirror and pretend they're almost the color of Tyki's skin.

Tyki speaks again, pressing himself even closer to Lavi, so his body is crushing Lavi's to the wall head-to-toe, so close that Lavi is certain if someone walked by they would be mistaken for a single person, so close that Lavi can feel Tyki's heartbeat, his damnable human heartbeat. “I'm going to kill you.” Lavi could sob; he doesn't want to die, but there's nothing he can do, he's pressed up against the wall, crushed like a bug, and there's nothing he can do. “I am going to kill you,” Tyki whispers to him, softly, gently, like a promise of love or devotion, and it both sickens Lavi and makes his pulse hammer, pound, beat, in his eardrums more violently, makes his palms break out in a cold sweat.

He smiles. He still can't breathe, can't breathe, Tyki's fingers digging into his windpipe, but he smiles and closes his eyes and prepares for whatever's coming at him, opens himself, he's going to die, he is going to die, and then –

it stops.

He's dropped like a ragdoll, all at once. But he can finally breathe, finally, and he breathes deeply despite how his lungs feel like prunes and he can barely move. He drops to the ground and lies there, limbless, focuses on how good breathing feels, hears Tyki say from a few steps away, “But not today.”

And then he's gone in a second, around the corner, and Lavi's alone again. He brings a hand up to his neck. He thinks he can already feel the bruises darkening on his skin, purple and blue and grey-green.

Lavi breathes, alone.

He can't help but think that the high he got from that is better than any sex they could've had.

 


	7. sc. vii

_.I'm gonna leave you drowning until you reach for my hand_

 

It's when Tyki is lying next to Lavi – Tyki awake and Lavi awake but both of them pretending not to be – when Lavi notices how Tyki smells: like tobacco and smoke and gunpowder; sharp, like something ready to jump and bite at a moment's notice. Lavi rests his head in the crook of Tyki's neck, breathes in all he can get, breathes and inhales and absorbs as much as he can because Lavi won't get to smell him again for who knows how long. And he'll miss that. Lavi closes his eyes and breathes and tries not to cry, tries not to sob because when Tyki is gone he misses him so badly, because he loves how that monster feels and touches and exists and smells.

Lavi knows Tyki is awake, knows he can't possibly be asleep (he never falls asleep), but he can't help the strangled, muffled, broken half-sob that wrenches out of his throat like a train screeching to stop on its tracks, all friction and fight and screeching until everything finally comes to a silent, lonely stop.

Lavi breathes. Tyki smells like gunpowder, like dust and smoke and explosions. Like death. He smells like death and hate and battle. Lavi's hit with a wave of self-hatred, which rips him from his shore of rationalization and drags him out to sea and drowns him in hate and fury, tugs him this way and that until he physically feels as if his body is being torn in two and he hates himself.

In that moment, he could not hate anyone more than he hates himself – not even Tyki, because Tyki smells like death and Lavi hates himself.

It's quiet in the room – Lavi breathes and it seems to echo from the walls, echo and echo and echo, ringing in his ears as he buries his face further into Tyki's neck, further into his own self-hatred, further into his own demise – further into Tyki. There's no response, none at all, for countless, repeated, reverberating moments. And Lavi silently sobs inside, his whole being flushed and washed out with emotion. He's overwhelmed, overcome, painted red and black in every corner of the canvas of his body.

He wants to leave, wants to run away, but he doesn't. He just buries his face farther into Tyki's neck and breathes in the comforting smell of death and cigarettes and hates himself.

And Lavi can feel it, the contraction of muscles against his face pressed so closely to Tyki's, feel the way Tyki exhales the smallest amount and hates _hates_ **_hates_** because what he just felt could not be anything other than a smile.


	8. sc. viii

_.Welcome to the new age_

 

And then, Tyki starts cutting him.

It's normal, at first, with Tyki pushing Lavi any which way he wants him, down in to the mattress as he pulls off Lavi's shirt with a smug look. And he presses himself down on Lavi bites at his neck like an animal, and Lavi breathes.

Then he draws back but Lavi's spinning, spinning, not thinking straight and caught up in the moment, in the rocketing sensation of being so right and so wrong simultaneously, so he doesn't notice the flash of metal in the moonlight for a moment.

Lavi resists.  He grips desperately at Tyki’s -- monster, monster, that fucking monster -- wrists and struggles, bucks up and presses against Tyki with every part of his body.  Desperate snatches of words spark off his lips -- no, stop, no -- and die with a flash.

Tyki doesn’t listen.  He brings the knife closer and closer to Lavi’s skin while Lavi’s hands pass right through Tyki like he’s not even there.

It’s the most sinister thing Lavi’s ever seen, the blatant joy on Tyki’s face as the knife breaks Lavi’s skin, as the first drops of blood pool and spill from the cut.  Tyki forms them into patterns over his chest, arms, and neck.  They’re gorgeous, swirling lines, demonstrative of the utmost skill, except for the places where they’re wrong, uneven, because Lavi struggles, squirms, tells Tyki to stop, bats at the knife and tries to get away.

But it’s like there’s a lead weight on top of him.  He can’t move.  Tyki’s given up disorienting Lavi with the intagibility of his body, and now he’s just pressed into the wall, his wrists trapped in the stonework.  He can’t breathe.  His chest is smothered, and occasionally Tyki will drag the knife along his neck, by his jugular, and then grip Lavi’s neck and press and press and press until Lavi can’t draw a molecule of air into his lungs.  He’ll choke Lavi until he’s about to pass out, until the world’s about to go black -- and then he’ll pull back and go right back to chopping Lavi up like fresh meat.

Lavi eventually gives up trying to get away.  He decides to -- to lie there and be cut and crushed and choked.  Every cut splits open his skin like a fissure, the pain of each and every drop of blood pushed from his veins like lava searing his skin.  

It hurts.  Lavi can’t do anything about it.

And that in itself is hopeless, squeezes every ounce of desire for anything out of him -- but there’s a certain thrill in it.

Lavi feels every inch of damage, every stutter of the knife against his skin with a little jolt from inside him.  He can’t identify it at first, just knows that it sparks and whines with every cut, every slice.  It’s a knot in his stomach and pulses and twists and cries.


	9. sc. ix

_.I'm heading for a meltdown_

 

Something has gone horribly, horribly wrong. Lavi knows this – he has hints: Lenalee pulling him aside and assuring him with those big, concerned, puppy-dog eyes that he can tell here anything (yeah right); Allen giving him a big, completely unwarranted sparkly-speech about the magic of friendship and why it's important and how he can rely on them if something's wrong, and Lavi doesn't have to do anything he doesn't want to (again, yeah right). They think that something's up with Bookman, that maybe the both of them will be leaving soon, Lavi is sure. He doesn't correct them, smiles and nods, says he just hasn't been getting enough sleep. He might imply that he's been having nightmares about Edo, and the Ark – which isn't entirely untrue.

But, yes, he has hints. Logically he knows that he's acting oddly, but he doesn't think it's so bad, not really. He doesn't think it's so bad until Kanda speaks to him – tugs him along by the shirt, throws him against the walls, says, “I'm not going to your funeral if you die, idiot.”

Lavi is so completely and totally puzzled by this remark – it takes him a full second to comprehend even the literal meaning, and another few to understand the implications. And by that time, Kanda's already walking off down the hall, his hair and his jacket swishing behind him, looking for all the world the epitome of indifference. Lavi could still catch him, act normally, say something he would normally say (Aw, Yuu, you do care!), but his feet still as he takes the first step after Kanda, and all of those words die a swift death before they get anywhere near his lips, and everything, every idea he has about doing anything to normalize the situation is wiped away from his mind like grime on a window, only to be replaced with a single resounding word:

Fuck.

He stumbles away, around the corner, past a few finders who shoot him odd looks – he must look a wreck, feels like a wreck, breathing fast, uncoordinated, he can feel his heart beat almost painfully in his chest because Kanda said something to him about it.

And that is when he truly realized how fucked he is. Because he knew it before, he did, but now he can feel it, is confronted by it like a train charging right at him, headlights blazing, horns blaring, and it's overwhelming and he's feeling and he can't stop.

He knows, he knows how to hold his feelings in check, synthesize them and make-believe he knows what they really feel like, but this – none of his methods are working.

He leans against a hallway, somewhere in the Order's maze of hallways, and tries to breathe – breathe at a normal, human pace, but he can't, he can't, he can't, and he thinks he might be panicking because HE CAN'T BREATHE, can't move, doesn't know what to do, doesn't know what to do, hasn't for a long time, and –

Bookman walks around the corner.

Lavi's stomach drops somewhere near his feet. He knows he can't hide what's happening to him: he still can't breathe right, his head is spinning, and when he tries to say something to Bookman he can't seem to get the words out at a normal pitch. Bookman stares at him with a gaze like ice or stone or maybe a spear to the heart, and Lavi can't move. Lavi can't move and his heart tries to jump straight out of his chest.

Bookman doesn't say anything, just glares like he had been expecting this, and it makes Lavi want to sob just a bit, seeing that. He hates emotions; he hates them almost as much as he hates Tyki (all of this is Tyki's fault, all the fucking monster's fault). Lavi was breaking before, edges of the pristine facade he had worked so hard to craft fraying, but now – but now it feels as if the entire dam has broken, like the very quintessence of what he is has almost entirely unraveled, shattered, crushed and fallen to pieces, and he'll never be able to build it up again.

And he wants it back. God, does he want it back, when he sees Bookman glaring at him. It's not an angry stare – Lavi could deal with angry; Bookman's angry with him all the time – but disappointed. It physically hurts, like a blow to the head or a punch in the gut, and Lavi feels like he's going to puke.

“We will discuss this later,” is all Bookman says before he walks decisively down the hall. Lavi has never so desperately wanted to turn back time.

Lavi's frozen as Bookman leaves. His head is so full, thoughts ricocheting this way and that, but as Bookman leaves his thoughts clear and he realizes that Bookman leaving is good. It's okay. He doesn't have to deal with him right now, and that's okay, because right now he still can't control his breathing rate or his pulse or anything. He'll be more in-control, later. Yeah.

He's not doomed. He can figure his way out of this one. He's not completely compromised; he still has his basic – he can't say control, because obviously that out the window – but his basic self is still there. His desire to be a Bookman and record history and learn, that will never be gone. He feels secure in that.

Everything else, on the other hand – it's like everything he previously defined himself as is slowly evaporating – and he didn't even realize it was doing so until it was already gone. He's not – he's not in-control, he's not emotionless, he's not sane. Everything, everything is falling apart.

But he's not doomed. He can fix this, he can. He's not really an expert at fixing things – he doesn't think he's fixed anything of this magnitude before. (He's never had to fix himself.) but he can fix it, he's certain.

Bookman pads away down the hall. Lavi listens to each footfall, and thinks to himself over and over again, “I'm not doomed, I'm not doomed.”

He has a distinct feeling to the contrary.


	10. sc. x

_.I'm the one who left you_

 

Lavi is very well aware of who he is supposed to be. He's had every persona driven into his psyche so deeply he could never forget a single one, and right now, he's supposed to be Lavi. Happy Lavi, fun Lavi, Lavi who likes to play pranks and screw with Kanda, Lavi who isn't who he is now.

He had cracks and imperfections before. He knew that then, and it becomes especially evident now that things are so much worse. He had gotten attached, let bits of what he was really feeling, who he really way, shine through this particular visage. And now, now, he can feel more and more cracks each and every day, more slip-ups and errors. He can feel pieces of Lavi slowly disappearing into oblivion, leaving only the dark unknown face of a stranger in their absence.

It's worse with Tyki. He's a completely different person with Tyki. That same stranger that seems so insistent on showing himself and never going away – someone nervous and blatant and someone who liked spending time with Tyki – is even more so around him. When he's with Tyki he feels like he is that person entirely, and every time Tyki leaves he has to slowly reconstruct Lavi once again. He misses a new piece every time; another chunk or shard of who “Lavi” is goes missing. It's painfully obvious to everyone, even him, that he's not the same person he used to be. He feels terrible all the time, has barely mustered a smile in weeks. He can barely even remember what it feels like to be the Lavi he's supposed to be. He thinks that, whatever it was like, he'd like to go back to being that Lavi, because he hates being this one.

He thinks that there are probably reasons that explain his huge failing this time around: the fact that this particular persona was so shallow in proportion to how long he's had to stick with it; the fact that he's never had to stick with any persona this long, ever. The fact that this is a war he's involved in, constantly risking his own life. It's no wonder he broke so badly.

And now this new personality that's emerging, it – it's freaking out, he's freaking out, because there are so many fucked up things about his life – so many his life is essentially built upon fucked-up shit. He's fighting a holy war for a god he doesn't believe in, against an enemy he's sleeping with (in the most fucked-up way possible, he adds).

And he doesn't have a name.

(If he ever did, he forgot it long ago.)

And how fucked up is that, that he doesn't even have a name? Not one that's his own. Not one that's real, that doesn't go along with a predetermined personality. A name is something everyone has. It's something basic, human, something people have had since the beginning of time. And he doesn't have one.

He knows why. The whole point of his profession is devotion to knowledge – besides the few practical applications, the whole reason personae are even used for Bookman's apprentice is to weed out any dredges of actual personality there, and the lack of a name prevents self-identification. He knows. He was taught this at a young age; he knows. The devotion is to the facts, to recording and observing history. That's the whole point. He knows, he knows, he knows.

And he's failed in that.

He's failed so badly, so completely, he doesn't think he can ever recover. He's already tried: he's too far along, too old to relearn.

He's failed and he's terrified. He's known what his life path was going to be since he was a child. Bookman, Bookman, he would be a Bookman. But now he – he's so corrupted, dirty, tainted, shot through with emotions of the worst kind, stained and tarnished to the core, that he doesn't think that's going to happen.

Lavi stares out the window of the train, at the scenery flashing by in jubilant greens and buoyant blues. He's not going to be a Bookman. The thought doesn't really sink in, it just floats over his mind, somehow managing to stay afloat despite the great weight it carries.

Lavi doesn't force it. He's not going to make himself any more upset (helpless hopeless angry) than he already is. His going to go see Tyki. He's going to drag this mission out for three days, and he's going to tell Tyki to fuck off. He doesn't know what he'll do (what Tyki will do) after that, but it's going to happen. He's ruined his life over this (it's starting to sink in). It needs to stop.

Lavi's going to tell Tyki it needs to stop. He's going to make this stop.

He doesn't have any plans after that.

He doesn't want to let himself think it, but maybe, just maybe, he can stay with the Order afterwards.


	11. sc. xi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i can put anything i want here

_.The sun hasn't died_

 

Those three days are the hardest three days of Lavi's life.

The first day, he thinks it would be easier, since he's actively spending time trying to prolong the journey – the trip is only a few hours' journey from the Order, and there legitimately isn't any Innocence there. Lavi realizes that, when he's able to figure out that there's no mission there within the first day, that Komui was kind to even send him here when he begged for a mission. He just wanted something to get out of the Order.

The second day, he spends his time dallying with the locals, investigating the one local murder that led the Order to suspect anything. He knows there's no Innocence here, and the only reason Finders were even sent here was the fact that it was so close to home.

But he just needs one more day.

It's so obvious that he's trying to stall, too. The Finders accompanying him keep telling him that they need to go, head back to the Order, there's nothing there. And Lavi keeps saying no, in the most nervous and jittery way possible. He can tell he's acting weird; there's no way everybody else doesn't notice. He's out of sorts, he's jumpy. The control he worked so many years to access is just gone and he doesn't know how to get it back. He's not cool, he's not calm, and he's not going to be a Bookman.

He lays in bed at night and worries. He's never experienced insomnia before this episode, but ever since this episode it's been his too-close bedfellow – creeping and clawing and clinging to his arms, his legs, his mind, deep purple tendrils tangling in his mind and keeping him awake.

But as bad as his insomnia's been, Lavi has no doubt that those three nights are the worst by far. It's not that he just can't sleep: he can't stay still, can't bear to lay in bed and let his thoughts run. Both nights, he gets up and paces and eventually leaves the hotel room to walk the streets at night.

He tells himself that he's not going to go, that's he's going to say in his hotel room and sleep – but he doesn't, and he always ends up outside, walking the streets at three in the morning (the most ungodly time to be awake). He steps on the road with his big heavy boots and glances at the buildings and the streets and thinks about Tyki. He can't stop thinking about Tyki. His self-control may as well have been defenestrated by the new person he's become, for all the weight he seems to put in it – but he doesn't care about that right now. (At least, he's trying not to.) All he cares about is getting out of the situation he's in.

That can't happen until the third night, though. The waiting drives him nearly insane, his thoughts spiraling completely out of his control, this way and that, and he can't fucking help it, no matter what he does.

He thinks about everything that could happen. His brain haphazardly calculates the probability of each outcome: it's least likely Tyki understands and backs off; it's most likely one of them kills the other. And Lavi isn't stupid. He knows that in a battle he's the one most likely to die. Lavi will probably die.

That fact doesn't sink in either, just like the fact that he won't be a Bookman. It floats on the surface peacefully, like a sailboat, bobbing in the wind.

He thinks about what he'll do if he doesn't die. He thinks about a life with Allen and Lenalee and Kanda, with them being his true, real friends (friends he doesn't keep secrets from; friends that aren't just ink on paper). A happy life.

He knows that won't happen. They're fighting a bloody war, and it's a miracle none of them are dead yet, but Lavi can dream. It doesn't matter, though, because he tells himself that's what will happen. He thinks it will make him feel better but all it does is make him ache because he knows it won't happen, ever. He's completely and totally fucked up his entire life with this. Nothing will go back to how it was before he fucked things up so royally. And he believes that nothing will go well after.

He hates himself. It's such a familiar feeling. It's been coursing through his veins constantly since the beginning of this whole mess. And it's awful, because every time it comes back, every time a new wave hits him, washes over him, soaks into his bones, it reaches a whole new level. The feeling is a building, burning, sinking one; it screams for his own blood. It's nested in his gut, lodged in his throat, infected every cranny of his brain. He hates himself.

He hates himself for fucking up his entire life so badly. He hates himself. He can't even bring himself to hate Tyki anymore. Silently whispering in his head that it was Tyki's fault, all Tyki's fault, but Lavi knows that it's not. It's his. His fault. It can't be anyone's but his. He made his own decisions.

It’s a realization that only makes himself more. He feels as if he’s standing at the foot of a mountain, clouds clearing around the peak only to reveal just how tall it is, just how fucked his is, casting a dark shadow over Lavi.

he fixes an apathetic gaze to his feet. No one’s fault but his. There’s no one to blame but himself.


	12. sc. xii

_.Deep in my bones_

  
Lavi doesn’t want to go walking on the third night. He’s secure in his room, far away from anyone else associated with the Order, with him. It would be a fine place to confront Tyki, just fine. He’s the only exorcist there. He’s safe.

That doesn’t change the fact that he finds himself possessed to leave his room. Something in the streets hooks him by the obsessive part of his mind and reels him out in the middle of the night. Lavi would like to say he doesn’t have a choice in the matter, but he doesn’t put up as much of a resistance as he would like to believe.

The night whispers to him in its silence. Every outcome is slipped into his ears by the bricks of the street, the panes of the windows, the dark spaces between buildings. He’s whispered to, whispered every body part of his Tyki could rip out and plaster over the town; how he could dismember Lavi or disembowel him or use his still-conscious body to breed his man-eating butterflies. He could stick Lavi’s face in a wall until he suffocates or drop him from far above the city -- he could throw him in a vacuum like he had Allen or simply slit Lavi’s throat with a knife and leave him to bleed out in the streets.

There are so many ways he could die.

There are so many ways Tyki could kill him.

And tonight, he’s walking the streets alone. Anything could happen. He sees Tyki down every alleyway, in every shady doorstep. It’s so much worse, so much more indicative of his deteriorating state of mind; he feels his breath picking up with each almost-hallucination. There aren’t any other people about -- it’s a small town with too few residents and too many grim rumors for there to be people about at night -- but Lavi still feels as if there’s someone lurking in every hiding place. His chest expands and contracts; his stomach churns, tests his ability to refrain from being sick. A clock quietly chimes the hour from a window cracked open. It’s one in the morning and Tyki isn’t there.

Anything could happen.

That there is the most terrifying part, really. He could be dead by the end of the night, by the end of the hour, by the end of the next ten minutes, he could be dead. He could be rotting in the back of a dark alley being eaten by stray cats, for all he knew, and he thinks of that and he wants to cry.

Lavi doesn’t want to die.

He never wanted his life to end, not ever. Not like this, staring his probable death in the face, down the barrel of a loaded gun. He has too many things he wants to do -- see the end of the war, be a Bookman, save his friends’ lives and maybe kiss Kanda on the cheek when it’s all over. He wants to get as old as Bookman and learn more about the human race. He wants to be wise and intelligent and he wants to make sure his friends live to be as old as he wants to be. He has too much to do before he’s ready to die.

He stops in the middle of the street, his mind overflowing with death and black and doom, and tries not to shut down completely. He has to -- needs to -- do this, no matter the cost. It has to end, has to stop. Bookman looked at him with those eyes. This has to stop.

So he breathes in and steels himself, takes one more step forward.

That’s when hands pull him into an alleyway.


	13. sc. xiii

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *whispers* dickbutt

_.Straight from inside_

  
He’s forced against a wall, his shoulders splayed out flat against the stone. Hands push against him with a brutal force and a voice growls in his ear, “Nice to see you, eyepatch.”

And all of a sudden he finds himself drowning, starts pushing, fighting against the inexorable current of what Tyki does, of what Tyki is. “Stop,” he whispers. Nothing slows down, nothing stops. He’s spinning, everything else is spinning, there are teeth on his neck. “Stop it,” he says again, and nothing happens. He can’t stop being touched, being pressed, can’t stop being carried away, can’t steal a breath of air. “Stop!”

He shouts it this time. There are still hands on his chest and teeth hovering over broken skin, but everything comes to an abrupt, jarring standstill. The sounds in Lavi’s ears are suddenly only the lacking sounds of reality -- his breathing, wind blowing over rooftops, stray animals scrabbling about in the streets.

Reality comes crashing back, but inside, he’s an earthquake, a tornado; a tsunami and every natural disaster rolled into one. And when the words, “I can’t do this anymore,” fall from his lips, they drip away like drops of poison being expelled from his system.

For the first time in ages Lavi feels clean. For the first time in months, Lavi feels like he can raise his shoulders and look his friends in the eyes. He feels like he can breathe.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he says more loudly, gains steam, and he feels strong and courageous and capable. Like he can’t be beaten down in a million years. He feels like he must’ve felt before Tyki. “I won’t do this anymore.” He feels like the Lavi who was becoming a person he liked.

Tyki draws back and his eyes gleam in the dark, vaguely yellow. “I see,” is all he says, his eyes glassy and dark, eerily calm. The look he gives Lavi would be enough to move mountains, enough to send Lavi spiralling back into his pattern of self-recrimination and helpless giving in. (That isn’t going to happen, though, Lavi won’t let it happen.)

Lavi glares back at him, his chin tilted upwards and jaw set.

And Tyki, from where his hands are still rested on Lavi’s chest, feels Lavi’s heartbeat -- how it quickens under his fingers, flutters under his inspection, and his face splits into thin-lipped grin.

Tyki slips his hand into Lavi’s chest and takes his heart.

the end

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *laughs into the sunset*
> 
> fuck me


End file.
